Eradicator
by IronSaint98
Summary: Korriban, once again forgotten by the Jedi as the home of the Sith, releases its hold on the last Pureblood. With the galaxy in flames with the birth pangs of the Clone Wars he slips into the shadows. Watching. Waiting. His sights set on the Pretender Lord and his spawn. With only his blade, power, a loyal homicidal droid and the clothes on his back he shall make the galaxy bow.
1. Chapter 1

Remnant

Pain sears every nerve as consciousness is thrust upon him. His eyes snap open revealing blood red pupils that shine with his pain. His spine arches and every muscle contracts with the unimaginable pain. The Force writhes around his supine form making the symbols carved into the armor plates encasing his body glow dully. The shadows dance in joy as the being at the center of the time worn chamber finally sucks in a breath. Deep heaving breaths greedily suck in life sustaining air. Strength gradually replaces the pain flowing through his limbs with each breath. Slowly his breathing slows and loses the desperation. Black robes rustle quietly across durasteel plating as the figure sits up with an exhausted groan.

The dull light penetrating the singular crack in the chamber's ceiling illuminates a powerful humanoid form. Thick armor plates buckled over a skintight black bodysuit worn beneath loose black robes protect him from the myriad threats of the battlefield and his environment. The light fading from the symbols carved into the armor's edges reveal them to be a near perfect match for many of the symbols in the stone altar he was laying on. His tall form wavers for a moment with a sense of vertigo but steadies. Strong purposeful strides take him from the chamber leaving his prison behind. His senses stretch beyond the physical, embracing the cool darkness that shrouds the entire planet and making idle note of the darker patches. His steps unerringly avoid the various traps meant to ensare would-be tomb raiders...or those who would attempt to free him.

A familiar, warm feeling catches his attention just beyond the wall a few dozen meters from his prison. The Force leaps to obey him as he reaches out for the wall. A ball of raw power leaps from his fingers and slams into the fake wall shattering the ancient plaster and revealing his goal within. Resting, supported by two claw-like lengths of iron on a black stone plinth is the hilt of his beloved blade. The casing and grip imbued with powerful Alchemy calls to him and a soft smile tugs at his lips beneath his helmet in response. It knows only one master, and the man who trapped him hear obviously ever knew that a few loyal servants stashed the weapon here sometime in the past. The hilt leaps from the plinth and into his waiting hand snuggling into his palm like it was meant to be there.

A simple press of the black activation stud ignites the ancient weapon. Three feet of bloody crimson plasma surges from the port with a hiss of incinerated dust and air. The blade casts the dilapidated tomb-prison in a baleful crimson light making the shadows seem to dance in the corners of the chamber and the hallway where he stands. The Dark Side sings softly to him. As if it were a hound welcoming its master home.

* * *

The small group of smugglers and bounty hunters thought themselves lucky to get through the Commerce Guild's sensors. They thought themselves blessed to get to the tomb that their mysterious benefactor discovered from an anonymous source. They thought themselves kings when they saw the credits deposited in their accounts before coming to Korriban and the promise of the rest after they delivered whatever was in the central chamber. They landed their ship in the desert before the small cliff and disembark leaving their ancient protocol droid, a salvaged hunk of metal that has been repaired a hundred too many times, as the sole occupant of the YT-1210 freighter that brought them there.

Huttese curses are flung back and forth cheerfully between them. None of them consider the area to be dangerous. After all nothing is better than a good blaster at your side...right? Hunger stalks them from the shadows. Lithe forms of muscle, claws, and teeth flowing over the stone and sand of their home. Angry red eyes regard the intruders hungrily as the pack musters. But they hold back. Even when their prey strides not three meters away from one of them without noticing. They wait.

The group begins their ascent up the worn stone steps ignorant of the threat looming just beyond it. A pair of photoreceptors regard the coming violence with something approaching murderous glee brewing within their central processor. The robbers place small demolitions charges on the door and retreat to a somewhat safe distance before triggering them. The _crump _of the charges shatters the heavy silence of the desolate wastes. Hungry growls rumble in the chests of the creatures surrounding them, only now making their presence felt to the fools. A kernel of fear sprouts in their brains at the sound, now totally ignoring the yawning entrance to the tomb. A shadow appears in the entrance, battle worn robes swirling about his feet.

The first of the creatures appears over the crest of the small dune it was crouched behind. Long narrow jaws drool in anticipation of the feast before it. Claws like daggers knead the sand beneath it already imagining the flesh of its prey in its grip. Muscles like steel cables flow beneath the tough black hide. Long black horns sprout from the back of its skull like a crown and smaller bony ridges sprout over the glowing red eyes that burn with its hunger. Fear spikes in the hearts of the would-be tomb robbers at the sight of Korriban's most fearsome predator.

"W-what are these things?" a Rodian stutters as the small party forms a defensive semicircle around the base of the stairs. None of them face the entrance to the tomb to see the towering form of the, supposedly dead, tomb's occupant.

"They're Tuk'ata. Guardians of Korriban's sands and tombs." The booming powerful voice frightens the group even further. Their eyes leave the prowling predators for just a moment. A moment is all they need. Eight of the sinuous predators pounce on the raiders in a tide of claws and fangs. Blood and viscera soak into the sands to the screams of sentient beings. None of them manage to fire a single shot. The figure smiles beneath his mask, the meaning of it long lost to the galaxy at large by the passage of time. The eight Tuk'ata prowl around him. Blood dripping from their muzzles further staining the sands. The largest of them steps forward glaring at the two black eyepieces of the mask. Crimson bores into void.

The mighty Tuk'ata bows to the being of the Dark, its massive form mirrored by the smaller creatures following it. The figure nods to the Alpha and strides towards the light freighter...and a familiar figure standing beside the lowered ramp. The unfortunately ancient design of the droid has gradually given way to rust and the need for patching. The formerly gunmetal carapace is now streaked with rust and patched over with several different alloys. Exposed circuitry peeks between some of the plates and the left arm's shoulder joint has a visible hitch in it when moving. Yet it is the voice modulator that catches the being's attention.

"Greeting: It is a blessing from the Maker to see you once more Master. I am so glad that I managed to trick these simple meatbags into bringing this ship here for you Master. Query: shall we go kill something?" the scratchy, slightly homicidal voice brings a soft smile to his face. The Seneschal-series factotum droid is not the correct form for the memory core hiding within the frame.

"It is good to at least hear your voice once more Hk-51. I see that your frame has been...downgraded to say the least." The being's voice is smooth and calming. A wine for the senses. As seductive as a skilled courtesan.

"Regret: Indeed Master. Time has not been kind to this loyal droid. It became necessary to conceal myself within this inferior hardware in order to free you Master. It was a simple matter to orchestrate your release...after these meatbag confused my memory core for this droid's."

"The Force must indeed be with me for such a thing to occur. What are the odds that either your core or the frame would still be functional after...how long was I gone HK?" A sinking feeling forms in his gut at the realization that he doesn't recognize the equipment of the raiders lying in pieces behind him.

"It has been...approximately three thousand six-hundred and sixty-seven years since your internment...Master." Shock. Unadulterated shock slams into him with the force of a charging Gundark. Everyone he knew and loved is dead. Well...those he loved were dead before he was interred. And his love with them. Now however...is not the time to grieve, and so he pushes it all back beneath the mask he has worn since he learned how to forge it. Pushing down the fear, hate, and grief that assaults his mind and feeds the temptress circling his soul beneath an iron control.

"Very...very well. You can apprise me of the galactic situation on the way to... anywhere but here."

"Agreement: Yes Master. Cautious Query: And if I may Master...can we find a more suitable chassis? This is most disgraceful for my production line."

* * *

**Jedi Temple**

The Council chamber is silent around the Grandmaster. His students and friends are gone, all risking their lives in a great trap constructed by an unknown hunter. The Dark Side shrouds the future allowing only the murkiest of visions at the best of times. The small green alien sighs heavily and stares into the grain of his cane. The ancient wood carved of a branch from one of the Gimer bushes of Kashyyyk has served as his cane for decades. Longer than some of the beings within the Jedi Order have been alive even. The melancholy that descends on the ancient master is a grim reminder of his own age. Even now he hears the whispers and laughter of friends long past. Their spirits one with the Force as his will be one day.

A sudden ripple across the Force, like a pebble striking the surface of a lake, snaps him from his reverie. His long ears twitch in displeasure at the sudden surge of the Dark Side. The Force ripples once more revealing a single beam of Light at the center of the disturbance. In all his centuries he has never felt such a contradiction. Darkness bringing the Light. A small spark of hope flares in his chest, a chance to save his beloved Order from the trap they have no choice but to trip. The Master reaches out with his senses pushing aside the billions of souls on Coruscant and feeling for the disturbance. His awareness slams back into his body at the touch of the Dark Side enshrouding the source. It knows he was looking for it...and it knows where he is. The only question is...what is its intention?

A familiar presence beyond the door surprises the Grandmaster, the door to the Council chamber hissing open. Master Cin Drallig, Battlemaster of the Jedi Order, enters with a scowl firmly entrenched across his face. His blue eyes bear the exhaustion of sending friends off to die. In a way he is. War is unpredictable at the best of times, and no matter the skill with a blade or the Force you can't survive a direct hit from a cannon round or overwhelming numbers. As the man responsible for overseeing every Padawan's and younglings' training with a lightsaber he has just as strong of a connection as the Grandmaster himself with those going out to fight.

"You have felt it as well then?" Master Drallig asks as a way of greeting. The older Master nods in reply, his face even more wrinkled with his frown.

"Growing, the Dark Side is. Uncertain future the Jedi Order, has."

**[A/N: Forgive my inability to write proper Yoda speak.]**

"What can we do Master? Most of the Order is dedicated to this...Clone War. If this disturbance were to be a product of Count Dooku or his ilk then there's no telling the damage it could cause." The small green Jedi hums to himself before coming to a decision.

"To Korriban, go I shall. The Order in your hands, I leave."

* * *

**Chancellor's Office**

Chancellor Palpatine is a _very_ busy man. Taking power in the Galactic Senate was enough work, but also maintaining the front he has to keep the Jedi off of his trail while orchestrating their downfall...that makes for mountains of digital paperwork and many sleepless nights. Now this new disturbance rips holes in his plans for the Jedi. The Rule of Two is clear: one master, and one apprentice. That is all. This new shadow can only be one thing. Another Sith. All that work potentially wasted. On the outside he is the grandfatherly Chancellor of the Republic reading over a proposal for a new trade route between Kuat and the mineral rich Core Worlds. On the inside he is plotting the downfall of Democracy and the Jedi Order.

He signs off on the deal and makes a mental note to send Dooku's pet assassin after the source of the disturbance. He cannot afford any anomalies to throw his plans out of alignment even in these early days of the war. With a heavy sigh he resolves to send word to his Apprentice at the earliest opportunity and then delves back into the ever growing mountain of paperwork.

* * *

**Korriban High Orbit**

The light freighter easily escapes the notice of even the warships in in orbit. The small craft and its single organic occupant accelerate towards the jump point. The red, dusty and tomb ridden orb shrinks against the backdrop of the heavens behind them. The droid dutifully manipulates the computer to calculate the first jump while his master relaxes in the seat beside him. A heavy sigh shakes his shoulders as he reaches up to remove his mask. The soft lighting of the cockpit illuminates his wine red skin and the cartilage tentacles forming a long mustache like structure that droops from his upper lip, and more that jut from his jaw forming a sort of pseudo goatee. Blood red eyes stare back at him in the reflection of the canopy. Black hair, cut high-and-tight decorates his crown.

As a Pureblood Sith in the Empire he was considered to be above the average Sith by right of blood alone. His power, as great as it is, was enough to earn him the title Darth and the command of his own infantry division. All of that doesn't matter anymore. Everything that he once fought for and was betrayed for is gone. The Republic remains in an even _more_ corrupt form and the Jedi continue to defend it, willfully blind to what was occuring in the Rim until it was too late. As an unknown variable on the Galactic stage he has dozens of options and not all of them are appealing. First things first though...get this ship cleaned!

His nose wrinkles at the scent of various drugs vapors and body odor entering his nose now that his mask is no longer filtering the air. Of course the codes need to be exchanged as well and an engineer needs to give it a once over to be sure that the scum that owned it before him were up to date on the maintenance of the various systems that ensure their safe passage through space. A low growl alerts him to another concern. A narrow head settles on his arm prodding him for attention that he gladly gives. Half-lidded burning red eyes look up at him as the Tuk'ata purrs under his ministrations. The rather small example of the creature's species called to something in him before they took off and so on a whim he decided to let it come with him.

The creature surprised him by forming a Force Bond upon first contact with him, something that he never heard of happening in the past. Well...in the past no Sith was willing to spend the time considering a Bond with _anyone_ for fear of it being exploited as a weakness. The pleasure flowing through the bond is enough to bring a small smile to the Pureblood's face while he thinks about where the best places to get his initial tasks accomplished would be. He sighs again as the hyperdrive spins up, idly noting that it happens slightly faster than the ones in his time. That's another thing that will take some getting used to: the advances _and_ regression in technology. How such a thing managed to occur will continue to boggle his mind.

Inevitably, his thoughts drift to the powerful presence that brushed against him earlier. The unmistakable Light of a Jedi and a powerful one too. Another sigh. He seems to be doing that a lot lately.

"Set a course for Nal Hutta HK. We've got a date with the scum of the galaxy."


	2. Chapter 2

Swamp and Slime

Nal Hutta is rivaled only by its moon, Nar Shaddaa, for its depravity and immorality. Scum of every size, shape, and consistency congregate in this one system to ply their foul trades. Drugs, guns, ships, slaves all flow through here thanks to the wider galaxy's rather narrow perspective of what is important in the galaxy. Admittedly: with a war erupting there is good reason to ignore the scum under their boots for a while. For the Sith and his droid companion this is the place to disappear and gather a little support. The ship and its contents have to be either sold, repurposed, repaired, or scrubbed. HK-51 requires a passable chassis that his memory core can be transferred into and a more suitable weapon than the scattergun that the smugglers saw fit to equip him with. The Sith would have salvaged some of their weapons for HK but they were scrapped by the Tuk'ata, disgraceful examples of blasters, or a combination of the two.

The various smuggling compartments that litter the ship were packed with Spice and its various variations along with other illegal substances that would fetch a pretty credit from the right buyer. The records HK managed to acquire from the former owners of the vessel indicate that they owed substantial debt to one of the Hutts, so the ship and the drugs will have to go towards paying that off. The drugs were purchased from small time growers and processors and so getting rid of them would be easier to get away with. Especially with a little tampering with the electronic signatures on the crates to make them even harder to track. However that is all in the future. At the moment he has to throw the ship through a series of intricate maneuvers and desperate dives to avoid the other craft attempting to land.

"Four thousand years and this planet still has no traffic control!" the Sith snarls savagely as he throws the surprisingly nimble freighter into a rolling dive over the spinal section of a bulky cargo ship.

"Statement: It has been my experience that meatbags never learn unless it directly affects them Master. The Hutts are even more foolish...and require more ammunition to properly liquidate."

"Not helping HK!"

First rule of Nal Hutta: wear a mask that has air filters where ever you go. The stench kicked up by the swamp, surrounding populace, and various drug factories is deadly. In a manner of speaking. More like nausea inducing and the possibility of getting a second-hand high off of some of the more powerful vape-drugs is incredibly high. Thankfully there are enough species in the galaxy that have a cultural penchant for masks that no one questions him wearing one. In fact, with his seemingly rich clothing and the silver etching in his armor attracts more attention from the cutpurses that linger every ten steps. The Sith's hand never leaves his wallet. The spaceport itself is more of a rusting warehouse that was built over again and again with a hole cut into the roof to allow ships in and out. Strange puddles of various colors and consistencies and more solid refuse litters the ground. Everywhere. There's not a more filthy planet in the _galaxy_ than the throne world of the Hutts. Still...there's not a better place to do business that needs to remain off the books.

"Begging Request: Master I must insist in liquidating half of this planet! My actuators are beginning to rust, a most disgusting substance is beginning to seep into my knee joints, and they are all whispering about how much my parts are worth."

"Easy does it HK, you'll get your fill of murder and mayhem once we get to the cantina. Of that I have no doubt."

"Query: What makes you say that Master?"

"I have yet to walk into a cantina and _not_ get shot at. Besides I could use the exercise, I've got four thousand years of pent up frustration to let out on unsuspecting slime balls." The Sith chuckles darkly as they head for the nearest cantina. The Smashed Bantha. Swinging doors that have more than their share of blood, vomit, and blaster bolts sprayed across their surface are guarded by a scarred Gamorrean and his massive axe. The Sith nods politely to the massive pig-man who merely snorts in reply. Neither take offence to the other, it's a cultural thing after all. The cantina itself is packed with the scum of the galaxy as expected from bounty hunters to slavers and spice dealers. A gun is on every hip, booze of questionable origins bubbles in battered mugs on every table.

The bar is manned by a scarred alien with four arms and a massive waddle like that of a frog's. The Sith doesn't pay it any mind, other than to wonder about its species and whatever others have popped up in the midst of his four thousand year long nap, and instead makes his way to one of the only table that allow him to watch the door. HK follows after him with his scattergun held at the ready to react to any threats that might appear. It doesn't take long for the scum to detect the stranger in their midst...and the scent of blood to spread through the waters.

It's only twenty minutes later, after ordering one of the least toxic looking items on the menu, that the first of the sharks circles a little closer. A seedy looking Devaronian with a nick in his left horn and shifty eyes. Well...shifty-er. His seemingly expensive clothes have more than a few stains from substances just as questionable as the man himself. The Sith sneers under his mask at the creature as the alien slides into place in the chair opposite his. Yellow eyes dilated in the tell-tale sign of drug use and intoxication stare into the blank eye-pieces of the Sith's mask. When the demonic looking alien speaks it's with the milk and honey voice of a master scam artists: something that the Sith finds aggravating in the extreme. Every word is going to have to be measured and judged before being accepted. Just like _politics._ And doesn't that just leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth?

"You seem to be new around here friend! Lucky for you ole' Branal found you before these other reprobates did. A man of your...stature shouldn't have to deal with these low down dirty scum—"

"I'm stopping you there," the Sith interjects bluntly. "We both know that you're a part of the same scum that you're talking down on at this very moment. We both know that you deal in drugs and ruined lives and the only higher power you believe in is credits. So...all I must ask is: do you have the money, or the contacts?" The alien's long forked tongue runs over his lips as if tasting the air. Something that brings a disgusted frown to the Sith's face and makes HK twitch his weapon a little higher.

"Do you have the product?"

* * *

The Devaronian, Branal, leaves the Sith with a holo-frequency and a promise to put in a good word with his employers. That leaves the Sith with a half baked promise and a mug full of questionable substance to form the beginnings of a power base. Built with criminals and drugs...oh well. He shrugs to himself and relaxes against the stained chair as the band comes back on stage from its break.

"Query: Master, do you believe that the patrons of this establishment find our presence unpleasant?"

"No HK, I don't. I think they find the fact that my clothes are _clean_ is unpleasant. Why?"

"Answer: Because a speeder just arrived before the cantina with a heavy blaster mounted to the bed."

"...well kriff me sideways." The Force shrieks in warning a moment before the first barrage of powerful crimson bolts cuts the Gommorean bouncer in half. A quick exertion of Force enhanced muscles and the table is ripped free of the solid steel bolts that moored it to the ground. A mark of an establishment that has a history of drunken brawls with powerful patrons using the furniture as weapons. Admirable, but futile against a Sith's mastery of the Force. Luckily both he and his robotic companion have fast enough reflexes to take cover behind the thick table as the heavy blaster shreds through front wall of the cantina and any patron unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Bodies and curses are tossed through the air for a solid twenty seconds.

"Statement: It would appear that your record remains unbroken Master. You continue to surprise me even after four milenia. This is truly impressive." The Sith grins savagely beneath his mask as he pulls a pair of blaster pistols from their dead owners' belts with the Force. It is not yet time to reveal the true power of a Sith, not without a stable power base and a good idea of what is _actually_ going on in the galaxy today. As much fun as eviscerating these fools with his blade would be pistols are less conspicuous.

"What can I say? I don't like to change!"

"_Come out Rennow! We want the money that you owe Zero!"_ The smile disappears from his face.

'_No kriffing way…'_ A young, wiry, Devaronian chuckles beneath another table across the room.

"I don't _owe_ him any money! It was all payed back!"

"_You were seven million short slimeball!"_ the as yet unnamed cronie with the damned big gun calls back.

"You know that slug can't count!" The telltale hiss of an angry Trandoshan rips through the air a split second before a startled yelp coming from the general direction of the Devaronian descendant of the one man to swindle a Sith and live to tell the tale. The Sith glances meaningfully at HK. He could swear that there was a more murderous gleam in those dull red crimson photoreceptors. The droid bursts from cover as quickly as his inferior frame will allow, scattergun barking at the quartet of mercenaries guarding the doors. Projectile weapons might be considered inferior to blasters in the modern day but they can still kill unarmored fools. And what criminal can afford to pay for armor when there are drugs and women to be purchased? The Sith follows him with the flowing, predatory grace of a hunting cat. His pilfered blasters rise with impossible speed and acquire their first target: the massive Trandoshan holding, what is presumably, Rennow off the floor with one massive hand grasping the Devaronian's horns.

The weapons feel strange in his hands, so used to the comfort of his lightsaber, but he doesn't hesitate. Or miss. Four crimson bolts slam into the giant lizard-man's torso with a fifth severing his hand at the wrist. The lizard drops Rennow and falls like a tree the light already leaving his bright yellow eyes. A savage joy flows through the Sith as he turns to find the other thugs storming through the door, chasing the patrons still alive or sober enough to move towards the back door. Blasters crack and screech spitting crimson death through the air chased by the cries of the well-paid mercenaries wielding them. The Sith counts seven of them before he takes aim with his own pistols. There's no fear in him. Fear has no place on a battlefield: only action and reaction, fueled by rage and directed by training. _That_ is what it means to be a Warrior of the Sith. Not the reaving, raving lunatics that have fallen to the predations of the Dark Side's poisonous whispers who swing their lightsabers with all the elegance of a caveman and his club. Rage without direction is death. For the oneself as much as the foe.

The pistols buck wildly in his hands as he advances in a steady stride that would have been the pride of Imperial Marines in his time. HK fires his scattergun. The magnetically accelerated pellets shred two human mercenaries and send their tattered corpses reeling into the men behind them. Easy prey for the Sith's deadly aim. A bolt finds a home in one's throat. Three more perforate another's chest and a pair cook another's brain in an instant. The last two spray their weapons back and forth wildly giving in to their fear of death. The Sith doesn't flinch. Doesn't move to avoid the death lashing the air about him. There's no fear to be felt in him. He is Sith. He calmly takes aim and fires a bolt into both of their heads.

The Force screams a warning and he whirls to see one of the surviving patrons taking aim at his face. The Sith sneers and hammers the human's torso with a barrage of crimson bolts. A ragged corpse in place of a man falls to the ground. Silence. The sweet silence of a field with only the dead embraces the small cantina. The Sith smiles as he takes it all in reveling in the destruction of every enemy, the obliteration of every threat and knowing that they'll never rise again. That is the sweetest taste of victory. Of course it is all shattered by one sentence from a certain homicidal droid. The Dark Side sings at the edge of his mind. Her sweet siren song a soothing presence as the pain and fear begins to dissipate.

"Statement: Master it would appear that more of these foolish meatbags are congregating. I would suggest finding more cover."

"I agree with the murder bot!" the sickeningly slimy voice of a certain descendant of a certain Devaronian criminal that may or may _not_ have nearly swindled him out of a destroyer says from behind a battered but intact table. A scowl twists the Sith's lips as turns to glare at the Devaronian. A part of him is surprised to see him cradling a salvaged blaster rifle and resting it on the edge of a table.

'_Four thousand kriffing years and still causing me problems!'_ The Sith grunts and presses up against the wall.

"You've got a couple of grenades right?"

"Indignant Response: Of course Master! One should never go to battle without sufficient supply of high explosives." A fourth voice stops whatever the Sith's response would have been.

"Alright you _sleemos_! Whoever the kriff frakked my bar is going to die! Then whoever is left is going to pay for repairs!" The Sith glances at the four-armed alien and somehow isn't surprised to see it wielding four blasters at once. And notices that two of them are pointed and Rennow with no small amount of amusement.

"I'm to guess that someone named Zero, presumably a Hutt, was owed money by our slimy colleague over there—"

"_Hey! _I'm not slimy! I'm a legitimate business man!"

"On Nal Hutta? Those don't exist."

"Do too!"

"If they do you ain't one Idraf," the four armed alien chips in with a smirk. The Devaronian actually looks _offended_. Imagine that.

"Warning: Duck meatbags!" HK's warning is chased by a near deafening explosion from the street. The kind made by high-yield, highly _illegal_, hand grenades.

"Report: All hostile meatbags properly liquidated Master! Query: Now may we find a better chassis? Preferably, something like my old one Master?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sith and Assassins

On a small landing pad, a shuttle descends on hissing engines. Hydraulic skids compress and the craft's frame groans under its own weight. Ground crewmen in stained coveralls surge forward to service the old shuttle while the ramp slowly lowers. A figure draped in an artfully stained cloak walks down the ramp taking great care to keep even their legs concealed beneath the cloak.

Slumped down and careful to keep from looking anyone in the eye they could easily pass for a simple fugitive running from some no name backwater planet. Of course, to the truly dangerous people that bother to look up from their cups that falsehood is stripped away faster than an unlocked speeder on Tatooine. The figure moves through the piles of suspicious slime and the press of unwashed bodies with a predatory grace. The cloak keeps anyone from seeing what they do with their hands beneath that artfully stained, blaster proof cloak.

The figure reaches out with their senses, all six of them. Searching. Searching. _Hunting._ Failure is not an option for one such as her. Her eyes slide shut for a moment when she finds what she is searching for. The dim lights and pale shadows of the majority of this steaming dung heap's inhabitants pale before the majesty of her target. A swirling mass of darkness and barely repressed anger..._no._ Not repressed. _Harnessed_.

Ironclad control keeping the fury at bay and leaving a shell of reason and ambition. Oh, she found her target. Her eyes slide open once more to reveal hungry silver orbs. She doesn't break character. Slipping from huddled group to group and shadow to shadow. Steadily making her way to the Darkest Shadow. One far darker than her Master.

* * *

Blood red lips curl beneath his mask as a familiar feeling washes over his senses. The faintest touch of corruption combined with the softest whispers of the Dark Side creating a heady tonic of _challenge_. The barest caress of his own reserves brings the Dark Side roaring into his mind and swirling through his veins. HK and the Devaronian are already on the ship, the droid has very _specific_ orders of what the Devaronian is allowed to touch and with what part of his body. Namely the deckplates can only be touched by the soles of his boots and his actions are restricted to breathing and blinking until such a time as the Sith returns.

Best way to keep the unruly outlaw in one place if his ancestor is anything to go by. At the moment, the ship is far away in the same hangar that he landed it in while he stands at the center of an abandoned and empty warehouse. Dust and various animal droppings cover the floor and watery sunlight shines through gaping holes in the roof after years of neglect. But he remains waiting. Still as a statue. He would wait for as long as it would take.

Patience is something that most Sith lack and has led to many of their downfalls. A cardinal sin in his eyes. Patience is the leash on his rage, the lock on the kennel's door. The shock troops use by the Sith Empire were little more than mindless automatons sent en mass at the Jedi to drown them in numbers and rage. A way to create a crack not only in the defenses of the Republic but in the psyche of the Jedi by forcing them to do the one thing that runs counter to their oaths and beliefs. Take life.

No matter their claims to the sanctity of life, their love of peace, and their supposed control over their emotions the act of killing weakens them. And strengthens the Sith as a whole...but none of those raging lunatics gained any _true_ power or knowledge. They were taught to swing a blade, to harness the rage boiling in their gut to gain strength, and some rudimentary telekinesis. Nothing more.

Not what they should aspire to, not what prestige the title of Sith gives one. Nothing but the location of the enemy. A Sith _harnesses_ his rage and bends it to his will. It becomes another weapon in the armory of the truly powerful. And he has harnessed it like a plough horse directing it every which way according to his whims.

He can sense her coming closer and closer. Her anger and self-loathing throbbing like a bruise at the edge of his senses. A small kernel of pain lingers at the edge of her fury and ambition. Oh...such ambition from one so unaware. It's precious. And so, he waits like a spider at the center of his web savoring every taste of her psyche that drifts across his senses. The old door, sagging on its hinges as it is, remains open and filled with light. The figure of the would-be-hunter appears in the narrow gash of light cloaked in a soiled cloak.

The corner of the Sith's mouth twitches at the deception. Memories of assassins attempting the same trick to gain a slight upper hand play through his mind for a half a breath before he shakes it off. No use wishing for the good old days now.

"You didn't make it very hard for me to find you _Jedi,"_ the stranger's sultry, low voice announces. The Sith smirks at the derision and disappointment dripping from that last word. That tone is one far too familiar to him after his years fighting the Empire's war. That kind of hatred for the Jedi Order can only come from one who was once Jedi themself.

"Two misconceptions my dear…the first is that I was trying to hide. The second—!" His explanation is interrupted first by a sudden surge in the Force. And then by the ignition of a hissing crimson blade and an enhanced leap through the air. The Dark Side sings at the pure _aggression_ inherent in such a move and the Sith grins savagely under his mask. Instead of drawing his own blade he simply shifts aside just enough to dodge of blade's descent.

Fast as thought he lashes out with a kick that sends her skidding away with a startled, pained gasp. Now he draws his blade from the voluminous folds of his robes. The weapon almost sings to his soul in his palm. The wrought iron worked to form the hilt inlaid with pure silver is a comforting weight. A piece of his soul clicking into place.

The hungry blade leaps from the hilt with a blood curdling hiss sending a thrill up his spine. Over three thousand years without a proper sword fight? His ancestors would be ashamed.

"The second assumption is that I am, or ever _was_, a Force damned _Jedi!_"

Asajj Ventress curses under her breath at the throbbing pain in her cracked ribs. This cloaked bastard _must_ have a cybernetic leg to kick that hard. She can sense his power swirling around him like a cloak of freezing cold shadows. It whispers at the edge of her mind both mocking and seducing her. Her own power rails against the darkness made manifest, banishing the probing tendrils. And then he draws his own blade and it all gets _worse_.

It feels as if she were thrown into a vacuum without a void suit. Sucking the breath from her lungs and robbing her limbs of strength. She snarls and her own power pushes back for a single instant.

Until he starts moving again.

Smooth and quick as a jungle cat he charges. His blade is suddenly everywhere with a savage strength and blinding speed. His body flows through the refined movements of Form II and the more savage strikes of Form V without pause or hesitation. Hissing crimson plasma ignites her cloak in place of opening her stomach, a barely deflected strike nearly taking every toe off her right foot. With a savage snarl Asajj musters a weak Force Push to gain some breathing space then rips her second blade from her belt and ignites it.

Instead of apprehension at the sight of the second humming blade she feels amusement coming from the strange being.

"Ah…Jar'Kai! Such a limited style."

"I'll show you _limited!_" Ventress hisses and charges again. Her red blades dance in great humming arcs each meant to kill. None come close. The taller being switches seamlessly into Form III using the tight movements to eliminate wasted time and counter the twin blades of the assassin. He stands unmoving like a pillar of stone.

Anchored against the storm of her assault. Her anger rises and she puts more strength into her blows. Strength that unbalances her. A strange sound joins the chorus of screaming lightsabers. Laughter. A cold sound that sends shivers down her spine. A sound that reminds her too much of her master's master.

"Yes, limited! With both hands full you can't use the Force very well—!" Too late she sees his free hand forming a claw and the swirling ball of power in his palm. The bolt of pure kinetic energy slams into her gut and bodily throws her across the warehouse. Instinct extinguishes her blades before she begins rolling across the floor and slamming up against a half-rusted metal shelf. Pain wracks her frame and she struggles to find her breath while the cloaked stranger takes sedate steps towards her. Blade humming hungrily in the palm of his hand.

"—like that," he finishes, his satisfaction dripping from his voice. She pushes back the pain and gains her feet with pure will power, reigniting her blades and taking her stance. The stranger tilts his head and assumes a traditional Makashi stance. The Force screams in warning a moment before his blade darts for her head. Asajj barely sways back from the humming tip and spins away to the right hoping to enter his blind spot.

By all rights the mask he wears _should_ have been enough to restrict his line of sight…but a Sith doesn't _need_ to see to fight. The Force is a sense all on its own. Without turning his head, he spins in the _opposite_ direction as Ventress to bring his lightsaber down in a vicious arc nearly taking her arm off. With a growl of frustration, she leaps back and then kicks off once again. Spinning in the middle of her jump to bring both of her blades around one after the other.

The stranger deflects the first and ducks under the second before driving an armor-plated knee into Ventress' gut followed by a haymaker that drives her into the ground. The air once again flees her lungs yet this time there is no opportunity to recover. As if lifting a dead leaf, the stranger marshals the Force in a telekinetic grip and forces Ventress to rise. Pinned in place and unable to break free of his durasteel grip she struggles mightily and uselessly. Only growing angrier.

"If you wouldn't mind relaxing my dear…?" the stranger's question seems more of a command. Ventress merely huffs angrily and snarls at the intricate mask, ignoring the cut dribbling blood on her cheek. A nasty bruise is already spreading across her cheek. He smiles inwardly. One could almost see the imprints of the script carved into his armor in the bruise.

"Let me go!"

"Hmm, no. You'll try and hit me." The Force thrums around her in a frankly amateur attempt to break his hold.

All brute strength and no finesse. Someone has done her a crime by not honing that power into the edge of the blade it should be. As she is now, she wouldn't have made it through her first duel in his time.

_'__Is the Force so much weaker now…or is it the lack of competition that has stunted the talent and power we once took for granted?'_ he wonders and tightens his grip, hardly straining with the effort.

"Such waste…do you even know how you have been wronged my dear?" Ventress snarls and thrashes.

**Nal Hutta Upper Orbit**

_'__Kill them, to direct traffic, would it!?'_ the Grand Master of the Jedi Order wonders in his mind as his ship skillfully weaves through the madness of the disorganized orbitals. Below him he can feel the distracting whispers of the Dark Side warring against itself. It makes him thankful that he chose a Clone Pilot to get him here allowing him to fight off its predations without worrying about a fiery death in space.

The compensators of the modified _Consular_-class cruiser whine with the strain of keeping them from becoming smears across the bulkhead and the entire crew breathes a sigh of relief when they finally manage to breach the atmosphere. The descent is much smoother in atmosphere. It would appear that the Hutts prefer their towns and villas to be safe from the threat of mid-air collisions between freighters.

All thoughts of the madness over the world is swiftly banished from the old master's mind when the first tendrils of shadow begin to spread from the dueling Sith below. The small green Jedi staggers to the side, his clawed hand grasping at the wall as his mental barriers are sorely tested. The Dark Side presses in on his mind. Joyous whispers tickle his senses while the slick tendrils slide across his mindscape. Then it disappears almost as quickly as it began leaving him breathless. The concerned eyes of the pilot peer down at Yoda, questions obvious behind those dark brown orbs.

"To the surface, swiftly, we must go."

**Nal Hutta Surface**

Master Yoda hobbles into the age worn warehouse alone. His large green ears droop in disappointment at the lack of occupants within or even the slightest clue. Collapsed and half rusted frames lay scattered across the ground, cracked concrete offers nothing. His still keen eyes zero in on a small blood spatter, like that of a split lip or a small cut. The Dark Side clings to the battered structure like mold.

The old Jedi can feel the raw power that was exerted here from the remnants soaked into the ground and walls. The fury, pain, rage…_joy?_ Yes, a savage joy. A joy of battle soaking into the stone is tangible to the ancient Force adept. His cane taps against the stone, echoing against the walls. It stirs the one presence he can detect: one that is quickly growing angrier.

"By the strange presence, bested you were Ventress?" The small green alien has no doubt the muffled screech would be laced with expletives without a gag balled up and shoved into her mouth.

**YT-1210 "Profit Rocket"**

**Deep Space**

The cargo hold is cold and silent but for the humming of the starship. Meditation is the only time one sees a Sith kneel for they need to center themselves just as Jedi do. The Dark Side is a harsh mistress always attempting to lead a man astray with sweet promises. Meditation helps repel her corrupting touch. Objects float about in the grip of the Force by _his_ will.

And who is he?

_'__Foolish boy, messing with things beyond your meager understanding…'_

_ '—__an't do this my son! The Emperor—'_

_ '__Will support my move! I'm sure of it…'_

_The feeling of the Force enchantments sucking the strength from his limbs is akin to stepping into the middle of a Hoth blizzard naked. A leeching pain that swiftly turns to numbness while his sight fades. The final sight of his betrayer leaving the chamber sears itself into his brain. A man once called brother now named traitor._

His breathing remains steady through the visions, though the floating objects spin faster and faster around him. With a great exertion of will he reins in his anger and releases the tension across his shoulders. A low rumble reaches his ears through his trance and he smiles softly. The weak bond leading to the Tuk'ata he hasn't got around to naming radiates affection from the deadly creature. Through it he can sense the presence of Rennow on the other side of the sealed door, waiting anxiously for the Sith to emerge.

His bare fingers caress the leathery texture of the normally savage creature, rubbing at the base of the horns sweeping from its head. Glowing red eyes close in pleasure and it purrs quietly.

"Shall we let the Devaronian in?" he asks the creature with the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice. The beast chuffs and circles around behind him to lay on the deck, long tail curling around him possessively. The barest exertion of the Force opens the door allowing Idraf Rennow to slink into the cargo bay. Of course, the alien's narrow eyes zoom in on the ferocious creature lurking behind its master. Fear leaks from the red skinned alien in tantalizing waves. The Sith maintains his silence beneath his hood and mask, enjoying the way Idraf's fear is fed by the low lighting and his faceless host.

The Devaronian was allowed on the ship for one simple reason: he knows people. The Sith can sense it and the greed brewing in the lanky alien. A greed for credits and power. Things that he can work with. The twenty million credits the spice shipments fetched are only enough for a starting point. The Sith's plans extend _far_ beyond the walls of the small freighter and require further funds; funds the Devaronian are going to assist him in acquiring. His plotting is interrupted by Rennow's reedy voice.

"I uh…wanted to…thank you for helping me off of Nal Hutta. What do you want in repayment?" The Sith arches a brow under his mask.

"What makes you think I did it expecting payment?"

"Listen I know what you are: either a Dark Jedi or a Sith. And neither one of them are known for their charity work."

The Sith chuckles and reaches for his mask. The ancient device has been his face to most organic beings for as long as he can remember. Passed down through his family for generations and steeped in the Force it is probably worth as much as a cruiser to the right collector. Not that he would ever sell it. The environmental seals pop and hiss as they uncouple from the segmented cowling that extends from his armor over his head and neck to connect with the mask. The cowling recedes with a chorus of sharp clicks around his neck. With the mask and hood lowered the Devaronian is treated to a sight no one has had for thousands of years: that of a Sith Pureblood.

Skin the color of a fine wine is devoid of scars. Strange tentacle-like growths spring from his lip to wind down like a long mustache combine with shorter growths like a goatee, and sprout from his brow like hair on a human. His eyes are dark red like fresh spilt blood and sharp as a vibroblade. Those eyes…they stare into the veteran swindler's soul like a predator scenting prey. Those wine-red lips twist into a fearsome approximation of a smile revealing brilliant white teeth and sharp canines.

"You're going to help me build a ship."


	4. Chapter 4

**Foundation**

Idraf Rennow is a slimy, greedy, conniving, thieving, swindling criminal with a fierce lust of money. He lives his life by swindling others out of their hard-earned cash and spending it frivolously then swindling someone else. To him, retirement seems boring and "the big score" doesn't exist. The shoot out in the Smashed Bantha is merely the most recent example of his scoundrel ways getting him in hot water.

But being trapped on this tiny ship with a psychopathic droid and a being fresh out of horror stories from thousands of years ago is slowly changing his…perspective. The plans laid out by the ancient being, apparently Sith magic can keep a man in their prime for four thousand years without aging, are reasonable. Achievable within a short timeline. The design for his ship is even older than him but has many modifications that make it more than a match for most capital ships used by the navies of both the Republic and the Confederacy.

And it is already half-finished.

Funds acquired from the drugs, and a few well-chosen raids on the population of pirates that plague the Outer Rim, will be enough to enlist the aid of skilled technicians and engineers needed to finish its construction. More will be required to purchase the reservoirs of Tibanna gas, concussion missiles that must be produced at illegal arms factories in Hutt Space, and fuel. Tons of fuel. High quality fuel like the kind needed to run high end engines is not easy to come by. All the Devaronian can see are credit signs cycling across a screen. But…

"Excited announcement: Attention all meat-bags and master, we are being directed into the station's shuttle bay with a tractor beam. Opportunities for liquidation are at hand!" HK-51's unnecessarily excited voice declares over the intercom yanking Idraf from his thoughts. From his position in the cock pit he has the perfect view of the blood bat about to occur within the approaching hangar. The pirate base built into an asteroid is an impressive structure to be sure, with durasteel tubes linking several rocks together and forming a larger ecology. The small raiders that are parked in the hangar are nothing to truly write home about being the typical combination of speed and fire power with next to nothing by the way of defense.

The Sith Pureblood and doesn't _that_ just send a shiver down his spine, and his companions are already waiting in the cargo hold before the ramp. Idraf can almost hear the glowing eyed beast growling from the opposite end of the ship, his mind filling in the screech of its sharp claws on the durasteel floors. The pirates ignorant of death within the ship bring it within their atmosphere retaining force fields. The landing struts groan with the freighter's weight settling against the oil stained deck. Armed pirates in coveralls, sweat-stained clothes, cast off uniforms, and even a few plates of armor swarm from the open doorway in time to see the ramp lowering.

No sooner had the ramp opened halfway than the Sith comes leaping from the ship with his lightsaber drawn and growling hungrily. The beast follows soon afterwards jumping on an unfortunate Twi'lek and ripping the blue skinned man apart in a ball of ripping claws and snapping teeth. Between the lightsaber hacking limbs off and deflecting blasters like no tomorrow, the hungry predator stalking the unwary pirates, and the cackling murderous droid blasting anything that comes in range with the battered looking shotgun in its hands the pirates are quickly dealt with. His new acquaintance doesn't hesitate to exploit the advantage their sudden arrival has bought them.

Sith leading the way, the trio bound for the slowly closing blast doors which somehow grind to a stop.

_'__More freaky space magic…'_ he thinks sardonically. With a sigh he leaves the ship and tramps down the ramp, blaster in hand to deal with any stragglers. A few of the eviscerated pirates groan quietly and are quickly put out of their misery. The Devaronian doesn't hesitate to pilfer the pockets of the dead of all spare change or perhaps a few expensive weapons. To his disappointment, though not unexpected, he finds only a few expensive vibroblades to add to his collection. He ignores the now torn or punctured armor worn by a few of the more competent pirates knowing that it will do nothing to protect him from his allies

His trek after the murdering trio is predictably horrific: bodies reduced to several pieces or simply mulched against the wall, red smears that used to be living things, a few half-chewed corpses. And one man that appeared to be electrocuted, fried within his high-end armor. By what he can only imagine. Eventually the path of brutalized bodies leads him to the station's command center where a Sith sized hole is cut through a meter-thick blast door. Surrounded by about two-dozen bodies in what would be considered heavy armor.

He gingerly steps through the hole in the door and sucks in a breath at the sight before him. The presumable leader of the pirates is on his knees before the Sith, eyes rolled back in his head and leaking tears of blood. Foam is bubbling at the man's mouth which emits a constant groan of agony. The Sith releases the vegetable and flicks his wrist snapping the once-man's neck with the Force. Something absent in the scoundrels most heinous nightmares.

"Code is seven-three-three-nine-besh. Download every liquid asset they have and get me locations on anything worth anything, vent the compartments with hostile life signs," the Sith orders coldly, striding through the gore and wreckage like a specter of death. The Devaronian shivers at the aura of dread projected by the towering figure, savage beast prowling at his heels with the blood of its prey still smeared across its jaws and claws.

"Report: seven compartments within secondary habitats have been vented for a total of fifty-seven terminated life signs. Stockpiles of illegal weapons located in structure four, spice in this structure, slave collars and production facilities are located within structure three. Twenty-three life signs broadcasting slave collar signals are scattered throughout the entire array. Beginning transfer of liquid assets," the murder-bot declares from where he stands beside a blood-spattered console. A probe extends from his arm and plunges into the console's interface, humming and shifting as the droid sifts through data. The Sith ignores his droid and approaches a slightly sunken panel in the wall. A simple wave of his hand wrenches the panel free and then the door of the safe behind it. Nestled within is a stack of data-pads and credits. He ignores the credits and collects the pads.

"Let's deal with the slaves and blow this place to hell. I've got what we need now."

* * *

The slaves ended up being released, collars deactivated, and spread among the ships used by the pirates. A few of them were capable pilots and were promised the profits of the vessels when sold. The Sith has the few droids on the station load as much Spice and other valuables onto the _Profit Rocket_ as possible and refill their consumables. Idraf assumes that his back channels will be used once again to sell the Spice at an optimum price along with the valuables, not limited to gold and platinum works along with a few pieces of rare art.

All slated to be sold to pay for more construction droids, mining drones, and operators. There are no more expensive operations than building a ship from almost scratch in secret. Which makes it all the more amazing when the Republic revealed their massive fleet to the galaxy. The Devaronian sighs and caresses a golden centerpiece that would have looked _fantastic_ on the dining room table. Too bad it simply _must_ be sold to further feed the growing fortunes of the Sith. Not so say that Idraf isn't getting a profit off of it all as well. He's already made more than most senior naval personnel make in a _year_ in the last three weeks.

If only he knew of the Sith's plans for the future…

* * *

**Irongrad, Skellet Sector**

The _Profit Rocket_ drops out of hyperspace at the edge of another criminal system. But this is no criminal empire built on drugs, slaves, and death. No, it is a different kind of crime. A crime against small business. A star system rich in mineral reserves, specifically iron which gives the system its name. The three major corporations stand above every other organization on the planet's surface, ruling with an iron fist to keep their dominance over the markets absolute. They boast some of the finest shipwrights in the galaxy but hoard them jealously downplaying their fame. Very few people are aware of the skills of their designers, engineers, and work force as a result of this corporate camouflage.

"Are you sure you want to try and make a deal with these people? They don't exactly take kindly to strangers poking around, and never make public deals with the…less desirable," Rennow whines from the co-pilot seat.

"They're the kind of people I need to finish my ship. Your connections and locations are good enough for funds however I need skilled hands to complete the work. I will not sacrifice quality for speed in this endeavor," the Sith replies succinctly and transmits the clearance codes needed to get a berthing at one of the outermost ports. His reading into the Three has revealed that not much has changed in his millennia of rest. The industrial planning and production centers along with the proper channels of contact remain outside the main cities where their lords and masters can observe but not experience. There he can contact one of the families, or more likely a representative, and negotiate a deal for a short-term contract for a labor force. Of more import is acquiring the services of their designers and engineers to assist with modernizing the relevant components and systems.

His ship is more powerful than any on the battlefield at the moment in terms of guns and armor, though her engines and power supply leave some to be desired. The one thing that the millennium of rest as done for technology is make it more efficient. While weapons and overall design has backslid in most places the march of technology is inexorable producing better reactors and engines, along with better materials to carry the power to the relevant systems. And it is in these areas that his ship dearly needs improvement.

His robed form sweeps down the _Profit Rocket's_ ramp like a specter of death itself sending chills down the spines of the groundcrew racing forward with their burden of hoses and toolboxes. HK-51 follows along sedately, his shotgun left onboard the ship in favor of his built-in weapons…and a few grenades in the small satchel carried in his hand alongside a few data-pads with the relevant documents needed for the negotiations. The architecture of Irongrad is one of raw functionality. The buildings are sharp and angular with the blocky writing of the natives carved into the stone and inlaid with coppery circuits that collect power from the infrequent storms that ravage the cities.

The sheer, geometric shapes of their writing and buildings and vehicles give the impression of an unimaginative mind. Sticking with the simple in place of taking up the challenge of more organic designs. To the Sith this is what he needs: utilitarian designs that function no matter what is thrown at them. Advanced machinery fails if a few parts are out of alignment but the rugged designs that Irongrad regularly churns out are far more effective in wartime. Something that he doubts the Republic has realized yet. A few quietly spoken words to passing workers and a few credits pressed into the hands of the Watchers sees him directed towards the Center for Pleas and Bargains.

The squat, square building is a bustling hub of business activity. He can practically _taste_ the greed and desperation in the air as he steps through the doors. Security guards finger their heavy blasters and eye him as he passes by but do nothing to halt his progress. A subtle manipulation of the Force has him sent to the front of the line farthest from the doors and sat in front of one of the clerks.

The clerk is one of the natives; a short humanoid with a heavy brow, thick arms, a penchant for growing long facial hair and braiding it in ever more complex patterns, and a greed unmatched by just about any other species. Dark eyes take him in from under thick eyebrows, sweeping him from head to toe. A soft grunt is his only response.

"Well what are you here for? A loan? A once in a lifetime deal?"

"A contract to finish the construction and modernization of a capital ship?" the Sith interjects in the same skeptical tone as the clerk. The smaller humanoid leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

"How big is the ship?"

* * *

**A/N: Short chapter because I needed to put something out for this before I go on deployment for four months. If any of you join the military and believe me there are plenty of excellent reasons to do so not least the free college that the GOVERNMENT pays for, be prepared for shit to change rapidly. My ship wasn't supposed to go on deployment this year, but our sister ship has a…well the boiler is cracked like an egg and ain't no one going to put that Humpty Dumpty back together without a long time in dry dock. Until next time…when I finally get around to actually naming the Sith.**


	5. Chapter 5

Satisfaction

People often forget just how big space is. Holo-dramas, fantasy writers, games all make it seem like every engagement is visible to the naked eye and that every covert search relies solely on the people watching through the bridge's viewing ports. This could not be more false. There is more _nothing_ in space than there is _something_. More space between the borders of star systems just off the edge of hyperlanes and even the most covert of smuggling routes. It is in these places of nothing that the intelligent hide that which is truly important. Such as the mobile construction platform maintained by the Dwarmen of Irongrad. Certain clandestine operations need a level of secrecy and capability that a stationary facility just doesn't fill.

And since it's not a warship it isn't limited by the Ruusan Reformation size statutes. The Sith can't help but smirk at that little loophole and all the ways it can be abused. HK hums quietly behind him, his memory core safely transferred to a new chassis complete with armor plating, a top of the line personal shield unit, a flamethrower and mini-rocket launcher in either arm…and a vibroblade in both arms. Designed on the same template as all the previous generations of HK models HK-51b is now the single deadliest droid in half the galaxy. Complete with a modern heavy blaster with enough firepower to turn a small shuttle to slag. Also, illegal.

"What do you think of our associates and their toy?"

"Statement: I have seen bigger Master. But the small meatbags are most competent in construction of devices to liquidate all manner of beings and vessels. Query: Do you think your ship has enough guns Master? I'm sure that they would not mind adding a few more batteries with the right… incentive."

"HK as much as I love your lust for murder and mayhem in this, we must trust the wisdom of the shipwrights. They gave an estimate of three months before she is fully equipped. Time enough to make plans…and do a little research. How do you feel about removing squatters?" The red photoreceptors in the familiar face plate gleam with murderous intent.

"Statement: I am most excited Master."

**((-))**

Idraf gapes in wonder at the ancient ship in whose halls he walks. The history of the vessel seeped into its bones, the aggression inherent in its lines and those of the ancient droids that still maintain it. A ship who alongside its thousands of brothers and sisters nearly brought the Old Republic to its knees in the greatest conflict yet to rage across the stars. One that makes the Clone Wars look like a lover's spat, turned whole worlds to drifting _husks_. His boots clanging against the deck plates is utterly drowned by the tread of the three-legged war droids that patrol the corridors. Insectoid, black, and menacing with enough weapons to put a squad of mercenaries to shame.

_'__If this Empire invaded _now_ the Republic would have rolled over in two months,'_ he thinks to himself and shudders keeping his hand well away from his blaster. No need to antagonize a full ship of murder-bots any more than he unintentionally did the other one. Who now has a suitable frame…he's going to die. He's going to be killed by a droid that was old before his grandfather's grandfather was born. The blast doors leading to the bridge are suddenly before him guarded on either side by the heavy war droids that he's seen patrolling the ship before. All four of their cannons tracking his every movement, tiny red photoreceptors filled with malice glowing in their long faces.

He can feel the slight tingling associated with high-definition scans sweeping over his body, cutting through layers of interwoven blast padding beneath the lining of his leather coat to the flesh beneath. Every sown in pocket and hidden blade stuffed where someone wouldn't think to search. The cannons hum with power. Death buzzing at the edge of his senses as a single bead of sweat runs down the side of his face. And then the droids step aside with the door hissing open. Standing there is the Sith.

The Tuk'ata at his side rumbles menacingly with glowing crimson eyes. The beast has visibly grown after leaving Nal Hutta as if sensing that they have need of more power. The muscles coiling underneath its thick leathery hide are like steel cables and ripple with each smoothly threatening motion. Long claws of black ivory clack against the metal deck that they could easily rend should the beast get it in its head. The Sith is calm and quiet in his black robes and armor. The soulless eyes of his mask reflect Idraf's face.

"My Lord, I was just coming to find you."

"I know that's why I was waiting at the door."

"Ah."

"Come. I want to show you something."

**((-))**

"Something" turned out to be a story wall. The intricate carvings stretching the length of an entire hallway running from above the thrumming reactors and ending at an observation deck just above the forward hangars. Warriors, first in silver armor bearing metal swords rendered in red metal so that they seem to glow, Purebloods and primitive Sith in gold armor bearing brutal axes and swords and then in the same black robes and silver chased armor of the Sith beside Idraf, conquering worlds and erecting monuments to their greatness. Their tombs more complex and dangerous than any other species in the galaxy. The Hyperspace War, the Great War, every significant event over the millennium of conflict between the Sith and the Republic.

"This is the story of my people. Unaltered as best as could be. It took some of the finest artificers of the Empire seven months to complete this one wall as the rest of the ship was constructed around them in the final days before our offensive was to set off and finish the weakened Republic…I guess the history books know how that one went off. My betrayal occurred three days before we were to set off."

The Devaronian merely grunts, too concerned with picking out the details on the Sith carving their way through bodies of Republic Troopers at the forefront of Imperial soldiers in heavy armor while Jedi linger at the back of the fighting. In the next scene only one Sith remains standing among the bodies of the slain surrounded by Imperials on their knees in supplication. The details are astounding down to the threads woven into the robes of the Sith. A small banner is worked into the durasteel over the Sith's head. The writing in the same harsh script as the ancient Sith's armor.

"What does that say?" The Sith huffs in amusement.

"'_Lord Eradicator, Darth Carnan slaughters the Empire's foes on Corellia.'_ One of my first conquests as a Darth, and the last one as an Eradicator."

"What's an Eradicator?" The Sith chuckles humorlessly and reaches out with a gloved hand to caress the wall. Fingers playing over the small indentations of detail.

"We were shock troopers meant to force the Jedi back. Exhaust them with numbers and hate and strength. Open the way for the "real" Sith to cut through whatever remains of their defense. Of course, the reality is that the Jedi were not prepared for war in any way when it first broke out and the Eradicators cut through them like wheat in a field. Before they began to learn the price of their…serenity. But that is a story for another time."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because this is all that truly remains of my life's accomplishments. Everything I fought for…everything I bled for and killed for and was _betrayed_ for. A wall on a ship that should not still exist. There were whispers of Sith who believed that we needed to change the Empire. Temper the blades of the Sith and forge them anew on a true path that would see us forge an Empire to last thousands of years. I would see that dream come to pass and I would do it as my ancestors did. I will collect the dregs of society.

I will take the cast off, the ignored, the beggar, and the murderer and forge them all into a united Empire. The Unknown Regions…pah! They are not unknown! Just forgotten. Virgin ground ready for our spades and a power base ready to be formed. And it all begins with _this_ ship. And our first course is already set…"

**((-))**

**Jedi Temple, Coruscant**

Master Yoda basks in the setting Coruscant sun filtering through the shades of the mostly unused meditation chamber. Soaking in the serenity of his secret spot. His walking stick balances across his knees. Ventress resides within the isolation cells of the Temple with a pair of guards posted outside her cell through all hours of the day but left many more questions for the Grand Master than answers. Her description of a tall being in armor and strong in the Dark Side isn't as helpful as it would first seem. There have been many individuals who have fallen to the Dark with such an appearance throughout history.

The majority of Dark Jedi that have fallen throughout the thousands of years of peace have been rabid things, swollen and corrupt with their own power and as unthinking as a mad beast. They are dangerous to the individual but hardly capable of the long-term plotting and destruction as the Sith of the past. This being…this is no Dark Jedi drunk on the promises of power from the Dark Side.

This is a true Sith. Martialing the strength and power inherent in the Dark Side without being used by it. A toxic creature that is more dangerous than a dozen Ventress'. And they have no idea where it has gone. No name to put to it. No species or voice recording…just a feeling in the Force. An increasingly murky medium to track such a dangerous creature through.

The ancient Jedi's thoughts turn to the madness consuming the galaxy in the form of the Clone Wars. The early days are a fragmented mass of shifting fronts as worlds are attacked, fall, are held, or retaken. The opening engagements have revealed the quality of the Clone army of the Republic often being far superior to the quantity of the droids of the Separatist Systems. Fleet actions rage between the Hyper lanes that are depended on for galactic trade and the markets are already tanking due to the sudden cut of numerous trade routes. Coruscant itself is seeing a soon to be massive food shortage if the routes are not opened soon.

The Jedi Order is scattered across the stars alongside the Clones to stop the Separatist advances leaving the Grand Master and the various other less martial Masters to train the younglings in the Temple. Keeping them innocent of the conflict raging beyond the Core and cultivating the next generation of peacekeepers while hoping that they never have to face the fires threatening to consume the entirety of the Order.

The ancient Jedi breathes deeply and easily slips into his meditative trance. The Force swirls around him and he embraces its light… letting it take him away from the shadows carving their way to the heart of his beloved Order.

**((-))**

**Dark Space**

Darth Carnan, Lord Eradicator, the Last Pureblood, the Eradicator, future Rebuilder of the Empire soaks in the sight of the swirling cosmos beyond the armored glass of the _Vengeful Spirit's_ bridge. The droids manning various bridge stations needed to keep the powerful ship operational hum quietly adding to the subtle bass vibrations of the computers. HK stands dutifully behind his command throne. The assassin droid's crimson photoreceptors burn with the passion possessed by his cold mechanical heart.

Idraf Rennow, the slimy Devaronian now converted to become Carnan's future Minister of Crime, stands uneasily in his freshly laundered smuggler's leather. His hand never leaves the well-worn blaster on his thigh holster. Shifty eyes displaying his anxiety for any to see while staring out into space. The Tuk'ata at his feet shifts and rumbles quietly in its sleep. Long claws digging shallow furrows in the alloy deck plates as it dreams of the hunt and prey beneath those rending claws.

Plans race through his minds as the _Spirit_ barrels towards her objective. New reactor thrumming with raw power. Bristling with guns and oozing menace that will soon make the galaxy tremble once more. But for now, she slinks between the stars as a shark among schooling fish. For now, his eyes are turned away from the churning frontlines of these _Clone Wars_ and to the forgotten worlds of the Sith Empire. Worlds whose existence was erased from the records and star charts of the Empire to keep them secret and safe.

"My Lord, hyperspace exit in three minutes and twenty-two-seconds," a droid alerts its master in the baritone, emotionless voice typical of Imperial droids. Carnan nods in acknowledgement. The swirling blue of hyperspace fades to reveal the uncountable stars of real space. Sensors frantically sweep through the system seeking for anything that might threaten the mighty vessel. Or challenge her mighty guns and the strength of her shields.

It took every day of three months to finish the refits needed to make the _Spirit_ mobile and deadly once more. Her modern reactors now put out thirty-seven percent more power than the previous three, her efficiency is beyond compare to her original power supply scheme with newly installed modern power buses and thinner but much more efficient power lines supplying the incredible amount of energy the reactors produce to her shields and weapons. With the new reactors her design has been pushed into the modern age and still has enough surplus power to install newer more power-hungry systems when the time arrives.

The still powerful active sensors sweep through the system identifying every celestial body within the bounds of the system and unobstructed by the radiation curtain of the stars at the center. Seven planets including a single massive brown gas giant, over twenty moons, a dense asteroid belt, scattered fragments of debris made from the same alloy as the station that once guarded the single point of interest within the system. But the fragments of the ancient station are still hot…

"Contacts located. Fifth planet in system, largest moon," a droid drones from the sensor station as the blazing fires of rage sear along the Sith's veins. A large holo-tank set into the center of the bridge flickers to life displaying the long-range sensor contacts. The _Spirit's _sensors focus on the area with a brutal single mindedness, the spirit within the ship's ancient bones surges eagerly in response to its master's will. Her guns ache to be used to spit their fury through the stars once more. Lord Carnan snarls behind his mask and takes in the images of his newest foe.

The jagged, sloped armor of the Separatist Munificent-class star frigate would be a menacing sight to any system without a proper defense fleet or a pack of pirate ships with light weapons used to challenging unarmed freighters not proper warships. They are little more than irritants to the _Spirit._

"Bring dorsal turbolaser batteries to full power and prepare the ventral missile mounts. Shields biased forward. Maintain course."

"Are you sure that this old girl can take on four modern warships at once?" Rennow asks skeptically beside him. Lord Carnan merely nods and keeps his eyes glued to the plot. The frigates are split. Two trawling through space five light minutes from the planet and the other two holding station above what he has come for. Directly placing them in his way.

"We'll deal with the two patrolling ships first. Make course four-seven by three. Move to maximum combat speed and begin preparing the drop pods. Activate security protocols."

**((-))**

Unit 1555-78349 hums to life in its cradle. Power cell supplying power to its heavily armored frame and supplying a trickle charge to the capacitors of its twin arm-mounted heavy blasters and the acceleration coils of the Mk-II grenade launchers mounted to its back. Lesser Imperial Mark-I war droids stir from their own cradles throughout the cavernous hold. Hundreds of durasteel and alloy feet stop across the decks taking up position beyond each gun battery's control room, before the engine room, and at the doors to the bridge.

Unit 1555 leads a lance of its compatriots to the forward hangars. Internal diagnostics and repair protocols complete their own preparations bringing the heavy shield to full functionality. An invisible bubble of energy sheaths the C-series war droid displaying what makes it so dangerous in the confines of a city or a ship. The _Vengeful Spirit's_ hangar, while still stocked with the Supremacy-class starfighters that the Empire favored, is silent and still in the absence of the normal flight crews that would have been conducting flight operations in a combat scenario.

Unit 1555 feels the deck vibrate through its three legs and through the frame, a logic protocol identifying it as outgoing weapons fire. It's enhanced targeting optics catch the flash of the triple turbolaser mounts firing from the hull plates before the shimmering force field keeping the atmosphere within the ship. The target is far too distant for even 1555's enhanced optics to pick out but it's programming knows that there is a target there. All it has to do is wait for targets of its own to appear.

**((-))**

The _Spirit_ roars in on the two Munificents like a shark. Cannons spewing ion bolts chased by a storm of turbolaser fire. The frigates maneuver wildly to avoid most of the fire at extreme range and return a few ragged volleys that fail to do much more than cause the _Spirit's_ shields to flare. The range continues to close between the ships, the fire getting more accurate and pummeling each other's shields. The two Munificents further in system accelerate frantically to catch up but remain twenty minutes away at best speed. It allows the _Spirit_ time to demolish both of the small ship's shields. The titanic ship turns nimbly exposing her armored stomach and the dozen missile mounts.

Like scales on a dragon's back they swivel to acquire their targets and release their massive warheads with a pulse of magnetic power to assist them along. Screaming through the howling dark they slip through the desultory point defense fire. Fire blooms along the flanks of the much smaller ships stripping weapon mounts and punching holes through lightly armored hulls. Fires bloom and are quickly extinguished by the airless void.

The twin frigates lurch sickeningly and rotate to expose their undamaged flank to the leviathan bearing down on them just in time for a fresh volley of turbolasers to crash home against unshielded durasteel and rip it apart in bursts of radiation and heat. Armor plating ruptures under the barrage and softer inner compartments are exposed to vacuum. In just twelve minutes of fighting both Separatist ships are reduced to burning wreckage. Lord Carnan sneers at the two frigates approaching the _Spirit_ at maximum speed. Sensors ping the dozens of boarding craft speeding for his ship long before the holo-tank can display them. Power shifts across the ship draining from the big guns and flowing into the point defense cannons.

More than seventy fighters appear on long range sensors slipping between the boarders and accelerating ahead with reckless velocity. Even with the advances made to inertial compensators in the four-thousand-year time gap no organic pilot could survive that kind of acceleration or remain functional.

"Blasted droid fighters… fire plan Besh. Prepare ion cannons for saturation barrage when the dropships get within range."

Small missile turrets not dissimilar to the small rolling airframe missiles of primitive wet-navies of certain worlds emerge from their armored hatches and link in with the central targeting computers. RADAR, LIDAR, limited graviton sensors, and ion-tracing units coordinate to provide the most accurate picture possible to the incredibly important missiles. The Empire learned early that the most powerful warship can still be threatened by a squadron or two of fighters and began equipping their capital ships with their own point defense systems so that they would never be caught out undefended against swarms of small-craft.

The small droid fighters attack in a shifting swarm in a dizzying array of vectors and trajectories throwing out a wall of interference designed to get them just that little bit closer. The first missiles are launched fifty-seconds before the fighters enter laser cannon range and cross the intervening distance in thirty-two seconds. All but seven of the fighters are destroyed outright with another two of the survivors now trailing burning fuel. Point defense lasers lash out and deal with the remainder. The boarding vessels, specifically the assault shuttles screaming for the hangar, are given a peppering of high energy ion fire that swats half of them out of the void or turns them into so much floating scrap. All of those who would have pierced the hull are mercilessly targeted and destroyed while those aiming for the "exposed" hangars are allowed passage. For experimentation.

**((-))**

Unit 1555 spreads its tripod stance and ups the power supply to its heavy blasters. Grenade launchers remaining hidden behind its armored carapace until the last second. The squat assault shuttles humming their way into the hangar on ion thrusters attract every targeting array within. Scanners pass over the shuttles gathering data on the number of power signatures within and allowing logic engines to grind through the data and identify the occupants within. More than double the power signatures that a collection of organic passengers would have possessed reside within.

Droids. Battle droids.

A challenge.

The ramps slam down and instead of a hail of blaster fire as would normally be expected a series of racks loaded with folded droids rattle from within the armored holds. Unit 1555 and the three other C-series droids activate their grenade launchers. Twin barrels sliding onto their shoulders on tracks and whining with power as the acceleration coils within are fed energy. The charges are selected and loaded from an internal magazine. Ion charges are selected for their potency against droids, targeter in the droid's head calculating the optimal trajectory in an instant.

The grey misshapen things are lowered and unfold from their resting positions. Matte grey armor, two arms, two legs, a vestigial head set into their upper bodies where a pair of crimson photoreceptors gleam. Each droid snaps one arm up revealing twin laser cannons. Unit 1555 would have scoffed if it possessed more personality. The Sith droids open fire in a single synchronous volley. Crimson bolts screaming through the small distance between the mechanical armies to pierce grey armor or be absorbed by flickering power fields. Ion grenades burst from the launchers with a pneumatic _thump_.

Guttering arcs of electricity arc out conducting against the armor of the invading droids and savaging the internal electronics. Unit 1555 registers seventy hits against its energy shield, a further twelve peppering its heavily armored chassis and barely scorching the paint. Its grenade launchers disable fifty-two targets, its blasters claiming one-hundred seventeen kills. An efficiency rating of ninety-five percent. Acceptable…for now. The lesser Mk-I and MK-II droids suffer light damage to their own highly resistant but much lighter armor. The boarding party is piled high in heaps of scrap leaving the shuttles unmolested.

_Prepare retaliation._

**((-))**

**A/N: Sup people! Just wanted to say Merry Christmas and whatever other holiday you might celebrate and put this out…hopefully on the right story this time.**


	6. Chapter 6

Reclamation

Unit 1555 steps into the drop pod with a sense of weary finality flowing through its code. The abnormally spirited droid locks itself into drop configuration, magnetic restraints keeping it from moving around during the drop. Two Imperial Mk-II droids join it within the pod. The black droids folding into neat boxes before restraints lower and lock them into place as well. The _Spirit_ shudders against the constricting grip of gravity and the upper atmosphere of the moon. The long-abandoned research station is buried under a mountain with its own contingent of maintenance droids to keep the stasis fields functioning and the geothermal power plant supplying.

However, four thousand years of erosion and the presence of foreign entities makes finding anything of use an uncertainty. So, Lord Carnan has begun taking steps to minimize the risk to his ship and the droids on board not knowing when replenishment will be possible. The _Spirit_ has a few features that other Harrower-class dreadnoughts lack. Namely the droid drop-pods mounted in her belly that take the place of several storage rooms and a pair of missile batteries. Capable of dropping either five Imperial Mk-II droids or two Mk-IIs and one C-series war droid from low orbit with pin-point accuracy to secure drop zones quickly for reinforcements or heavier units.

The nature of the pods and their occupants allow them to make truly wild maneuvers to avoid hostile AA fire. Vector thrusters and anti-gravity plating combined with layers of armor and shield unit supplied by an experimental and expensive power cell make it a durable and tricky piece of gear. And the pods are recoverable.

There is no need for a countdown to be broadcast over the interior intercom. They're droids and they maintain timetables like no organic could ever dream of. Magnetic rails propel the pods from zero to holy-kriffing-shit in less than a second. The _Spirit_ lifts away from the moon on whining repulsor engines, a ventral cannon firing a pair of parting shots to disable a trio of grav-tanks that the Separatists had already landed.

If it had been possible Unit 1555 would have scoffed. Foolish substandard models should have just surrendered the moment the _Spirit_ won the orbitals. Now they deal with true war droids.

**((-))**

Lord Carnan tastes the heavily recycled air of the assault shuttle as Rennow guides it down through orbit. The smuggler might not be the most experienced pilot to ever sit behind the Sith's personal shuttle's controls but even he can't crash it. The heavily modified shuttle carries twice the armor and shielding than the standard model used by the Empire millennia ago while also integrating a more powerful inertial dampener to make the ride smoother and allow the craft to perform maneuvers that shouldn't be possible for a ship its size and weight.

Armed with two heavy laser cannons and two missile batteries armed with either cluster munitions or armor/shield piercing missiles it has the firepower to clear a landing zone or board an enemy ship with just a change of missile loadout. The shuttle plunges through the thin atmosphere of the moon with ease, barely a vibration to mark their passage. Carnan stands in the troop bay with a hand locked around one of the handholds hanging from the ceiling unbothered by thoughts of the fighting to come. It will be as easy as breathing for him.

His only concern is limiting his losses for now. The _Spirit_ lacks droid construction facilities that he can use to replace his losses, so every unit lost is a unit that _stays_ lost. If he could have afforded it, he would have bombarded the site from orbit with ion-cannons before landing his own forces, but he has no idea if the shielding of the facility is intact enough to resist the charged particles. The information stored within those archives could be vital to him rebuilding the Empire; ship schematics, experimental weapon designs, new droid models, infantry equipment, and locations of yet more hidden facilities that might still be functioning.

The _Spirit's_ own archives are expansive, but they are still limited by the last time they were connected to the Empire's networks. He sighs behind his mask and puts aside his thoughts of the future. Now they have to force entrance against the defending Separatist droids. A misstep can still kill him. A press of a hidden stud beneath the lip of his mask seals it against his skin protecting him from the weak atmosphere to be found on the moon and drawing on his suit's oxygen reserves. The expanded tanks attached to his back should allow him an hour of air in conjunction with the scrubbers built into the respiration unit.

His hand caresses the hilt of his lightsaber beneath his black robes subconsciously as if to check that it is still there. Being deprived of it led to his imprisonment. It is the last time that he allows someone to get so close to him, a weakness that is purged and sealed in a prison by his fury. Never again will he be disarmed by a friend. The weapon seems to hum beneath his touch in agreement.

"Five minutes my Lord. The advanced force reports no resistance to their landing," Rennow reports from the cockpit.

"Thank you Rennow. Stay with the ship. HK and I will deal with the squatters then you can join us. Don't forget your data sticks."

"Statement: I am eager to test this platform Master. The inferior models shall make excellent test subjects," HK remarks while his hands manipulate the heavy blaster that seems too large for the lithe droid to handle with such ease. The large weapon hums angrily like a hive of disturbed insects as the oversized power cell is slapped home.

"I as well HK." Rennow leans through the open door to the cockpit.

"Equalizing pressure in the compartment my Lord, check your seals unless you want to be on thin air."

"I know Rennow. Begin equalization."

The door seals and pumps hiss sucking out the atmosphere to match that of the moon. Standard procedure on such landings to prevent loss of precious oxygen and the explosive decompression that can occur in rare cases. The shuttle settles against its landing skids and the ramp drops sharply. The Sith and his droid charge from the troop bay, the hiss of his lightsaber igniting strangely muffled through his helmet and the reduced atmosphere. The droids that dropped to secure the landing zone are joined by yet more droids from the _Spirit_ emerging from more shuttles.

The droids seamlessly insert themselves into the perimeter defenses. Shuttle engines ramp back up the moment the last droid emerges and sets foot on dirt. The blocky craft lift off and scream into the distance to avoid any potential AA fire and preserve themselves to evacuate the assault force.

Lord Carnan savors the slight hike in adrenaline that surges through him with the proximity of battle. But at the same time, he restrains himself allowing the droids to go first. A reckless Sith is a dead one.

"All droid units advance on the facility."

**((-))**

The Intelligence flickers to life with a hum of ancient electronics and stirring generators. Time has eroded at the surveillance abilities of the ancient AI. Entrusted with the safety of the facility it has rarely had a purpose for awakening from its stasis sleep. Strange new droids with long faces and fragile bodies are infiltrating the outer layers of the facility. Only a quarter of the hundreds of cameras remain functioning even with the maintenance droids working near constantly to keep them operational. That is to say nothing of the remnants of the garrison security droids.

Seven of the once lithe and deadly droids remain in operation and are currently deployed to defend the main lift into the lower levels of the facility. Defensive turrets read as eighty-percent functional. Something like satisfaction thrums through the Intelligence's coding.

**((-))**

Unit 1555 stomps forward at the head of its fellows. Cannons spit crimson fire into the packed ranks of lesser models while their return fire, inaccurate and weak by the standards of the Sith Empire, splashes against its shields for no tangible damage. Return fire fries the B1 droids by the dozen and before long Unit 1555 is striding over the shattered chassis of its foes. More of the small droids emerge from the target facility only to be cut down with ease.

The Master advance behind the lines of droids, blade humming and ready at his side. Unit 1555 places itself between the Master and any enemy fire as per its programming. It doesn't register the slight annoyance the organic fighter exudes at the lack of targets for him to dispatch. It takes exactly fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds for the Sith droids to secure the facility's entrance and allow the smaller models to swarm past and into the facility proper.

Mk-II droids swarm forward like a herd of colicoids laying down a blistering wall of fire with their twin arm mounted blasters. What few lesser models remain intact within are swiftly obliterated. The Master is silent as he strides past the droids to the barely functional lift at the end of the rotted and now destroyed reception area. His blade hisses back into dormancy and he pulses a subharmonic command.

_'__Guard detail post. Escort one-nine follow.'_

**((-))**

Unit 1555 and two Mk-II droids stomp into place in the lift forming a wall of durasteel and alloy between him and what threats await below. He knows that Sith installations are rarely a safe place to be and the protection protocols are well warranted. Doesn't make it any more comfortable to be sharing a small lift with almost two tons of war droid. The lift grinds down the shaft for the first time in millennia with a screech of tortured metal and buzzing barely functional magnetic propulsion units.

The lift studders to a stop after a hair-raising drop into the bowels of the earth. The lift doors screech open painfully making him cringe in discomfort. The droids storm forward in an avalanche of unfeeling legs and primed blasters to secure the immediate entrance. The whine of yet more weapons coming to full charge sends him surging to the front, blade already clutched in his fist.

Ancient, rusting droids. Imperial droids of the kind commonly used as security models for Imperial research centers. Something approaching hope blossoms in his heart. A low whine of activating electronics left too long without maintenance precedes the appearance of a flickering shape. The ancient holoprojector technology used by the old Empire was created to last with little to no care for its delicate internals. That it is this degraded is a sobering reminder of just how long it has been.

The flickering light eventually coalesces into the shape of a woman in an Imperial uniform devoid of rank pins or medals. Feedback screeches from the hidden speakers for a moment before the program adjusts.

_"__Greetings, Scion of the Empire, to installation Theta-Major. I am Imperial Intelligence Aurubesh-Nine-Nine-Six, Imperial-class artificial intelligence attached to the Ministry of Preservation."_

"What was the Ministry of Preservation?" Carnan inquires. There were many different ministries and spheres within the Empire devoted to one facet of their governance or another. It was not unheard of for there to be several that are never mentioned by any but the Dark Council or whatever head of the Greater Spheres they fell under.

_"__The Ministry of Preservation was tasked with the preservation of as many Imperial relics and technological advancements as possible for the future use of any who would survive a collapse of the Empire. The odds of a Sith Empire collapsing under the weight of its own decadence, the constant infighting, or any other of the many factors which may have led to their downfall were judged to be absolute."_ The Sith smirks beneath his mask.

"Is that your judgement based on reasoning or the reason given to you by your creator?"

_"__Both."_

Lord Carnan grunts and steps forward into the base proper.

**((-))**

**Six Months Later**

The armories of the _Vengeful_ _Spirit_ are swollen with the results of Lord Carnan's labor. Suits of armor never before worn forged in an advanced composite promising an eighty-percent increase in blaster resistance. Skinsuits designed to be worn in vacuum beneath armor or normal clothes. Heavy blasters more powerful and efficient than most anything seen on either side of the conflict.

Memory banks are clogged with designs for new vehicle mounted weapons, the vehicles to mount them. Starfighters, capital ships and escorts. Completed designs and fragments that could be pieced together to form variants suited to obscure tasks. Whole armories devoted to overcoming the unique challenges of a single planet codified in digital code and saved on the massive banks of servers and storage crystals.

So much knowledge of warcraft stored within the durasteel walls of the _Spirit_. The Sith in him craves yet more. The _Lord_ in him says that it is time to begin his work in earnest. Thus, their arrival over a dying world. The black world sedately spins on its axis ignoring the torturous conditions of the surface. The black mark of a civilization gone wrong evident in the near lifeless planet's regressed ecosystem, supremely powerful storms raging across the surface and near constant tectonic instability.

The few places where the powerful scopes and sensors of the _Spirit_ managed to pierce the charged particles and insanely dense storm systems paints a grim picture of the few inhabitants left alive. Trains of nomads eking a living off the rocks and ruins of their predecessors, fighting between tribes over the few scraps of ore and food that they have. A harsh world that tolerates no weakness.

The perfect world to begin training a new crop of Sith or even special operations troops. But a place to find a Force Sensitive where the Force is near nonexistent? He never would have thought.

"Prepare a shuttle. We're going to meet the natives."

**A/N: Howdy, been a while hasn't it. Some crazy stuff happening and I' sure you can appreciate the madness has even affected the military. The only reason this took so long is that I had NO INTERNET! So enjoy, like, comment, and subscribe or whatever...**


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